As the sun of my thirtieth year
Is flying toward the last sprinkle of my dark room
I feel as though I am to be dragged
To the world of ghosts, the world of my old friends and mates.
As the last moments of my thirtieth year
Are ebbing on the tip of the blue fingers of
The filthy ocean of my flying chariot,
I feel as though the ghosts from the dead land
Come and catch the shadowy hands of mine own
To visit “where the angels fear to tread”.
As the last rays of my blooming cheeks
Are quenching and the crooked furrows
Confiscate the flourishing throne of my young seconds
I feel as though I shall yield to the world of worms
Waiting for me, there, hammering my soul to punch the last
Moments of my young days to the last
Strings of my sheet, there, waiting to cleanse my dreams.
Shataw Naseri is an Iranian and Kurd. She was born in Sanandaj, Kurdistan in 1985 and now she is a journalist. She has M.A. in English literature from Shahid Beheshti University (the best Iranian university for English Literature) in Tehran. She loves Romantic literature especially Byron.